


Etched in Ink

by underthenorthstar



Series: Tumblr Fics [4]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Getting a Tattoo, Knife Play, Mild Sexual Content, Needles, mild dom/sub stuff, norse tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10856829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthenorthstar/pseuds/underthenorthstar
Summary: Ivar gives you a tattoo.TW: blood, knife play, tattooing with a needle





	Etched in Ink

“Are you sure about this?”

Ivar rolls his eyes, spreading out his tools on the long, well worn table. “I have told you already, woman, I’ve seen it done many times. It does not appear all that difficult.”

You fidget nervously with the neckline of your dress, watching your lover wipe down a very long and very sharp needle. You shiver.

“Yes, but you’ve never actually done it before,” you point out, your voice laced with anxiety. “What if you make a mistake? What if you tap too hard and accidentally kill me? What if-”

Ivar cuts you off with a soft growl. “You said you wanted a tattoo. I said I wanted to be the one to give it to you. Here we are. Are you going to get up on the table or not?”

He gives you a hard look, his beautiful blue eyes burning into your skin. You sigh. You do really want a tattoo. And you trust your body with your lover implicitly. He has taken perfect and reverent care of it since you first offered it to him. So you cross the room and climb up onto the table.

“That’s my good, sweet girl,” he praises you as you lie down. He glides a hand over your face and down your neck, touch light as a feather. You can feel the familiar flush creep up your body as he expertly unties the front laces of your dress. He pushes the fabric down to reveal the skin right over your heart. One calloused finger circles the area, brushing over the top of your left breast teasingly. Shivers shoot down your spine.

“Are you going to tattoo me, or just grope me?” You ask, your voice coming out more breathy that it should. He chuckles darkly, hand covering your breast and squeezing roughly. You shoot him a glare, even though you are half tempted to forget the tattooing and make him put his hand in other places.

“What is if that you want? You never did say,” He asks, removing his hand to prepare the needle.

“A Vegvisir,” you say, and watch as his brow furrows in confusion.

“You want a compass?”

“Yes,” you nod, firm in your decision. “And I will tell you why after this infernal process is over.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you wish.” He looks at the patch of skin again. “I think I will have to lay out a pattern first, so I have something to work off of.” He reaches down to his belt and pulls out his knife. “I will just carve it lightly into your skin with this.” A smirk blooms across his face. “This at least you are well acquainted with.”

Are you ever. Ivar loves to use his knife on you when you are alone and nestled under the furs. He also loves to have it used on him in return. It’s not something you would have foreseen yourself enjoying, but Ivar has a way of drawing out the deepest and darkest parts of you and twisting them to your mutual pleasure.

“Hold still, sweet girl,” he places the blade against your skin, the coolness of the metal familiar and a little thrilling. You wince slightly as he makes the first shallow cut, his brows drawn together in concentration.

“You know, you may have to be more careful with the marks you leave on me,” you try your best to keep perfectly still. “Yesterday the new slave girl who helped me bathe asked if I’d been bitten by a wild animal.”

He continues working but his face splits into a feral grin, no doubt picturing the very red and fresh bite mark he’d left on your inner right thigh the other night. “What did you tell her?”

It’s your turn to grin. “I said yes.”

That makes him bark out a laugh, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in the way you love. “Naughty thing,” he teases.

It doesn’t take him long to carve out the design. Before you know it he is putting down his knife and leaning forward to press his face into your chest. You suck in a breath, waiting for what you know is coming. Ivar does not wipe away blood. At least not with his hands.

The first stroke of his velvety tongue has you sighing in bliss. The warmth and wet feels wonderful on the sting of the shallow cuts. He licks in long, slow strokes, pausing every once and a while to let out a soft groan of pleasure. You melt to a languid liquid under his ministrations, your bones becoming soft and pliant and ready to bend to his complete will.

He pulls back all too soon, licking his lips like a cat who ate the cream. You watch the last of your crimson blood disappear into his mouth, unable to help but squirm as heat creeps up your spine. Ivar notices, and chides you gently with a wicked smile.

“Not yet, sweet girl,” he coos, picking up the ink and the dye. “Afterwards, if you are very good and keep very still, I will reward you. Now, I must get to work, or we will be here all night.”

You huff in frustration but attempt to calm your body. After all, you do really want this tattoo. You can be patient.

You watch him place the ready needle against your skin. A stab of fear runs trough you. It’s silly really, you’ve had his blade on you more time than you can count and you’ve never felt anything but excitement. This shouldn’t be much different. Except if he makes a mistake, you’ll have to walk around with it on your body for the rest of your life.

Ivar does not coddle you as he senses your fear, however. He simply gives you a broad wink, and taps the needle into your skin.

It hurts, but not as much as you thought it would. It feels like being stabbed with a million little tiny knives, over and over again. Painful, but not unbearable. You decide to focus on Ivar’s face, letting your eyes linger on every handsome feature. The stormy blue eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the soft, pouty lips, the strong jaw. A face you have come to love more dearly than you could have even imagined. You think of the meaning of the ink he is currently etching in to your skin and you feel your heart swell. You hope he will like the symbolism of your tattoo.

You lie on the table for what feels like forever. Ivar barely says anything, his face a mask of concentration. You’d given up trying to talk to him after he’d snapped at you to shut up and let him work. You have tried your best to keep still but you find yourself squirming more than once. Each time, Ivar had hissed through his teeth and you had quickly stilled. But you’d been here for ages. If you were on this table much longer, you’d go mad.

“There,” Ivar says finally, pulling away and removing the needle from your skin. “I think I am finished.”

“How does it look?” You ask anxiously, craning your neck to try to get a glimpse of the ink now permenantly a part of you. Ivar reaches behind him and produces a piece of reflective glass Bjorn had procured on his latest Mediterranean raid. You sit up slowly, wincing at the ache in your chest.

“See for yourself,” he hands you the glass, a self satisfied look on his face. You take it from him, taking a deep breath before looking. You let out a surprised gasp.

It’s beautiful. Pure, midnight black lines, perfectly etched. The shape is even, everything is in its proper place. You smile as you admire it. You had to say, your lover had done an amazing job.

“I love it,” you turn your gaze to Ivar, who gives you a genuine smile in return. “Thank you, Ivar. It’s beautiful.”

“I told you it would be fine,” he takes the reflective glass from you, putting it back where he took it from. “Now will you tell me why you chose a Vegvisir?”

You reach out and take his broad hand. It completely envelops yours, strong, deft fingers covering your own.

“A Vegvisir is a compass, a magical symbol made to help one find their way through rough weather,” you squeeze his hand, suddenly feeling nervous. “You are my compass, my guide through the rough weather. When I touch or see this tattoo, I will be reminded that though life will have storms, as long as I have you, I can get through them.”

You meet his eyes, and the honest surprise and almost child-like hope in them make your heart ache. You have told Ivar you love him before, but from the way he is looking at you now it seems like there was a part of him that never really believed you. Now, with your love for him permanently on your body, he maybe can finally understand and accept the depth of your emotions.

“I am your compass, your way through the storm,” he breathes, his other hand reaching out to gently brush the tender inked area. “I am on your body, in ink and blood.”

You bring the hand holding your own to your lips, kissing his weathered knuckles. “Yes, Ivar. For always.”

His hands are then cradling your face, his breath fanning across your skin as he leans in.

“My sweet girl,” he sighs, “do you even know how perfect you are?”

And then his mouth is devouring yours, tongue hot against your own as he kisses you like a man starving for it. You kiss back eagerly, though with you on the table and him seated beside it’s an awkward angle. But you do not care. You can only think, feel, and taste Ivar. He invades every one of your senses, sinking into your very flesh like the midnight ink shining on your chest. Every fibre of your being cries out for him, and you find yourself whimpering desperately against his lips.

He pulls away, his face once again in the array of arrogant confidence you are used to. “Such a good girl you were under the needle,” he purrs, and you whimper again as his hands slide down to your waist. “You stayed very still for me. I think my sweet girl deserves her reward now, don’t you?”

You can only nod, following his impatient hands as he tugs you off the table and on to his lap. His hungry mouth finds your neck, sucking greedily at the tender flesh. You wriggle against him, the ache from the tattoo being replaced with an ache of a totally different kind.

“Suppose I should get a tattoo for you now,” he groans into your neck as you dig your nails harshly into his shoulders. “Maybe you could even give it to me. Odin above, the thought of you pushing a sharp needle through my skin over and over…” he breaks off with a violent shudder.

You smirk, reaching for his knife still laying upon the table. “Why don’t you let me practice then?” You run the tip of the blade over the shell of his ear, delighting in the animalistic growl that tears from his throat.

“I am supposed to be rewarding you,” his teeth nip harshly at your pulse point. You grab a hold of his luscious hair and pull his head back so you can look into his lust glazed eyes. You trace his parted lips with the knife, and his eyes go almost completely black.

“Oh honey,” you coo, excitement and lust and passion boiling hotly in your veins, “to have you in any way is a reward to me. Now be a good boy and beg.”

Another feral growl, and his hands tighten eagerly on your waist. His head bows slightly, his eyes look down at the floor. He says nothing, but the beginning of his submission has started. It’s rare he lets you take the reins, and you feel like your need for him is about to burst out of your skin.

You grin, your new tattoo throbbing in time with your racing pulse.

This was going to be one hell of a good reward.


End file.
